


Golden light

by linndechir



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have loved each other for so long that when Finwë grieves, Ingwë grieves with him, but he also tries his best to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/gifts).



> I tried to include most of the things you requested, although I'm not sure how happy the ending really is, considering the circumstances. I hope you like the fic.

Ingwë found his friend in the royal gardens of Tirion, half-hidden behind rose bushes, lying back and propped up on his elbows so he could overlook the expanse of the meadows. These days there was always a certain stillness about Finwë that contrasted painfully with the easy, energetic smiles of happier times, but the shadow of grief that hung over him seemed somewhat lightened, though far from lifted. And most importantly he was here, among his people, not secluded in the gardens of Lorien.

The blanket he was sitting on was exquisite, and it did not take more than a glance to recognise the craftsmanship. Ingwë slipped out of his shoes before he sat down carefully and put his hand on Finwë's arm. Although Finwë had not reacted to his presence before, he did not seem startled, but covered Ingwë's hand with his own as if he had expected him to be there all along.

“Where is your son?” Ingwë asked instead of a greeting, not used to seeing Finwë without the bright-eyed little boy who barely ever left his father's side. Finwë nodded towards a small pavilion at the other side of the garden, and as Ingwë strained his eyes a bit he could make out a small child sitting on a high chair at a desk, his little hand moving quickly over paper as an older Noldo watched him. 

“I rue the day Rúmil taught my son how to write,” Finwë said with a small smile, pushing up the sleeve of his robes to reveal smudged traces of black ink on his forearm, barely legible letters written in a child's hand. “He writes on everything.”

Once Finwë's smiles had met him whenever they had seen each other, but now they had become so rare and precious that Ingwë quickly leant in to kiss the corner of his mouth, as if to make sure that he had not only imagined that slight quirk of Finwë's lips. It would be the furthest thing from his mind to blame his friend for his grief, rather he grieved with him, shared his pain as he had once shared his happiness. He rested his head against Finwë's shoulder, half closed his eyes when Finwë's fingers entangled with his. Finwë's hand felt warm again, not as cold as it had been on some days in Lorien, when Ingwë had almost feared his friend would lie down beside his wife and give up his life as well.

Long minutes passed in peaceful silence, and they both listened to the buzzing of the bees, the singing of the birds, bright voices from afar and much closer the other's deep, slow breathing. Ingwë had missed moments like this.

“Do you remember that large oak tree by the shore of Cuiviénen?” Finwë broke the silence after a while, his voice sounding as if his thoughts were far, far away.

“How could I forget?”

It had been beneath that oak tree that Finwë had first kissed him, under a cloudless sky when the stars had been shining brighter than Ingwë remembered from any night before, back when they had not known yet who had put the stars in the sky, long before Oromë found them and brought them to an even brighter light. The water had always been lapping quietly at the shore by that tree, and for all that he loved Aman and its beauty, no stream ever sounded quite like the soft murmur of the Cuiviénen by that tree, no other sound was reminiscent of so many memories.

They had been sitting under that same tree when Finwë had first laid eyes on Míriel, as she had walked on bare feet through the shallow water by the shore, humming to herself, her hair silver as the starlight itself. Finwë's fingers had trembled in Ingwë's hand when Míriel had looked over and met his eyes, smiling at him as she walked past.

_“You love her,” Ingwë had said to him weeks later, when Finwë's eyes had once again found Míriel's, and Finwë had flushed like a boy. He looked caught almost, opened his mouth as if to explain, but Ingwë had laughed and slung his arm around Finwë's shoulders._

_“There is no jealousy in my heart, if that is what you fear.” He put his hand on Finwë's chest, above his fast beating heart. “There are many kinds of love, and how much would mine be worth if I begrudged you your happiness? If she brings you joy, I shall love her for that alone.”_

She had brought him joy, and love, and a son whom Finwë adored more than anything in the world, but even when she had brought him grief, Ingwë still had love for her. He knew she would not have left Finwë if there had been any way for her to stay. All that mattered was that he took care of the one they had both loved, all the more now that she was gone.

Finwë's right hand was absent-mindedly retracing the pattern of the blanket, while his left still rested in Ingwë's, fingers curled around his friend's, his love's. They had never bothered to distinguish one from the other, not between the two of them.

“We never knew sorrow or grief under that oak tree,” Finwë said finally, as if he only remembered now that he had not replied yet. “And we expected the same when we came here.”

“Sorrow and grief may be unavoidable if we live for all eternity. But maybe it is still true that all can be healed in these lands,” Ingwë said. He curled a thick braid of black hair around his fingers, let his palm rest against the back of Finwë's neck, felt the tense muscles relax under his touch. “Maybe this was the only way she knew how to find peace.”

“I do not blame her for that.” Finwë smiled sadly, his eyes meeting Ingwë's again. “I would never wish for her to suffer on my account. But I miss her. I wish she could sit here with us, with you and me. I wish she could see her son.”

There was little Ingwë could reply to that in words, so he put all the comfort he had to offer in the touch of his hands on Finwë's wrist, his neck, his cheeks. He did not point out to him that his eyes were clearer these days, his voice not choked with tears anymore, that although his grief might never leave him completely, some of his wounds were clearly healing. He kissed lips that had stopped smiling again, let his mouth linger against Finwë's when he spoke.

“I miss her, too,” he said softly, even knowing that his own grief paled next to Finwë's. “But you are not alone, my love. Your son worships you. And I … Shadows would have to fall over this blessed realm before anything could ever separate us.”

Finwë's eyes met his then, and through the veil of grief Ingwë still saw all the love of a lifetime spent together, as close as the brothers neither of them had, filled with every bit of devotion they also felt for their wives. He raised his hand to Ingwë's face, his ink-smudged forearm brushing a pale cheek as he ran his fingers through Ingwë's hair and smiled.

Ingwë still remembered when they had first come to Valinor, blinded almost by the light of the Trees, and while Ingwë had still been looking around downright desperately to take in everything around them – as if expecting this vision of light and beauty to disappear if he only blinked once – he had suddenly felt Finwë's gaze on him, filled with as much wonder as Ingwë felt.

_“Your hair,” he had almost gasped. “It's so ...”_

They had not known a word for “gold” yet, after living only under the silver light of the stars, and Finwë had grasped in vain for a word to describe what he saw, had settled for pressing his lips to the golden hair on Ingwë's temple. He did the same now, fingers entangled in Ingwë's hair to pull him close and kiss him, before he buried his face in Ingwë's hair.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice muffled, but steady. “You've been by my side since I first opened my eyes.”

He moved into Ingwë's embrace, into warm arms that welcomed him, held him close, rubbed soothing circles on his back. Tension seeped out of a body that had spent too much time shaking with tears and sobs, that remembered only slowly what peace felt like.

As Ingwë held him in his arms, he wondered what else Finwë was remembering. If he too was thinking of nights spent under starlight, chasing each other through shallow water like foals who did not know the strength of their limbs, sitting together in soft grass, with only their fingers entwined at first and later their whole bodies, kissing each other breathless or singing quiet songs over the purling of the water. If he was thinking about how Míriel had joined them more and more often, how Ingwë had sometimes left them alone, but how just as often they had both reached out for him and asked him to stay. 

But whatever memories were on Finwë's mind, they brought no tears to his eyes that day, and Ingwë dared to hope that his friend would not succumb to his grief, that in time, he might remember that there was still joy to be found in this world.


End file.
